Cascadia
by peeta's-buns-don't-lie
Summary: "Tragic pasts always lead to tragic futures,"he said."The present is the only thing in your power to change."A girl finds the reason why her life has been a lie.Her mother is missing,and she's been seeing things she can't explain.Things change in seconds.
1. Prologue

My lord, _the feathered creature spoke. _We must proceed. Time is running out- the safest place for her is in Cascadia.

_The man nodded firmly at the creature. "We will leave on the sunset of the new moon- two days from now. I cannot risk traveling there tonight; your time is running out also."_

_The creature's feathers rippled uncomfortably. _We will make it, my lord. I can guarantee. It is either tonight right at this moment, or it will be much overdue and all of our planning will be for nothing. We will not shy away from this chance; your daughter's life, the fate of Cascadia, and your own safety as well are all at stake.

_The man was silent, pacing circles around his own self thoughtfully. "Very well," he replied, choking words out like they were hard to say. "We leave in minutes, and minutes only. If we leave now, we cannot afford to spare even seconds. It could take seconds for all plans to fail- seconds for my daughter's life to end."_

Yes, lord, _confirmed the bird in an obedient tone. _I can promise you only this- I will transport you and your daughter to the heart of the land only. I cannot help you further, for the reason that I am weak and I must pass only in the sacred Circle of Ashes. I trust you understand, my lord?

_The man's hands were shaking as he desperately clutched his daughter, wrapped in a flannel yellow blanket that was as thin as paper. He could see the toddler shivering, and he shook with her against the cold. "Just get her out of here. Get her away safely and soundly. This is all I ask of you, Tidal."_

_Tidal was startled. _But, my lord, what are you exactly implying?

"_I am simply not going, dear friend. I won't run away from danger as cowardly as you have mentioned. I shall face the wrath myself- all I wish is to see my daughter is in the safe hands of The Divided and nowhere else. I always must ask that her identity is kept secret from everything with ears to hear and mouths to speak. It is simply vital no living thing realizes the power she holds in the prophecy- she would be killed immediately by order of Invictus. Just please, my friend, protect her with your heart, your mind, your life."_

_Tidal paused, comprehending. _Even though how impossible I believe your request is, it is, after all, my complete duty to follow your orders and protect you and your child the same. I will guard her with my _soul_, sire.

_The man laid a hand on Tidal's winged shoulder compassionately. "Even if no human soul exists within you, you have the heart and bravery of a thousand warriors. I wish you my best prayers, dear one."_

_He laid the bundle of shivering cloth between Tidal's wings, which fanned out across his back and flexed outwards, fluffing in the nightly winds that blew tirelessly through the halls of the forest. After the youngling was secured between the shoulder blades of the creature, she ceased to shiver and was greeted with warmth radiating from the back of the animal itself. _

_By now, the toddler's father was full of fear and anxiety for his little girl, barely two years of age. As she cradled on the back of Tidal, she, of course, and her young mind couldn't make sense why her father was leaving her and wiping something glittering from his eyes. She couldn't tell which way was up, which way was down, or side to side as they took to the sky. _

_A baby flying on the back of a mythical animal was one thing, but it was indeed no ordinary toddler after all. Fate and karma, after every single prayer, still took advantage of a powerful and inexperienced little girl. Before they had even flown a mile, the small girl was surprised to feel something stinging against her back and her little stubby left elbow, like she was numb all over._

_A sensation shot down her little, barely foot long spine. It felt like fire had crept it way into her paper thin blanket and into her little pink jumper like a slithering and fiery snake. She wailed, until she noticed she wasn't burning. She wasn't feeling pain anymore, though the fire was still there._

_This only confused her more, and caused her to cry mournfully. She wanted her father; she wanted to be on ground again. Soon she would be granted that wish, but with a price. _

_Before the child mind of hers could comprehend, the feathers of Tidal began plucking off in the wind and fluttering in the wind and out of sight. A wave of feathers erupted from under the baby as well as a shower of ash. She continued to cry, but she was shocked into silence as she soon realized she was plummeting to the ground below her in a blur of a night sky she wasn't even familiar with._


	2. I Trust You

.:Chapter One:.

* * *

If only life had a remote- a rewind button, a pause button, a fast forward button, a power button- a remote to control. But no, it didn't, only in my dreams, at least in the dreams I don't lie awake in. If so, although, I could rewind and redo that horrifying moment of my life, I would without hesitating. That little moment; that naïve choice I made because of my own feelings, had only brought more pain, suffering, regret, and sorrow to follow… it changed everything completely. But I didn't know that then. Compared to now, I knew nothing. I knew nothing of my own past, future, and even possibly the present.

You're probably wondering, now, what that amazingly horrible choice had been. I rarely speak of it, only because if I did, nobody would believe me. I trust you, though, because you're special. I can sense it, like a gut feeling. I suspect you might play a part somewhere in this story. It might not be a big roll, but every part has to be played. But, just for curiosity, can you feel yourself in these pages as you read, or a part of you hidden in the written ink, like you've heard it somewhere before, somehow, someway? Yes, you do, don't you? This is a sign, but first, of course, I should tell you my own story. As a warning, if you feel slightly tingly, your hearty starts to race, your hair rises on your arms, set down this book. Bury it, burn it, do with it what you will. Just be rid of it- for your own safety.

Now, only read this book at your own risk. Even normal humans might get wrapped up in the whirl of this story. I laugh at you, if you think this is fiction. This story is my life, before and after I found… well, you'll see. But keep your ears open and your eyes perked.

Keep in mind, I trust you.

I thought this afternoon would be peachy. It was _indeed_.

I was angry, seriously angry. It was a little after noon, the clouds covered the sky and shaded the Earth from the sun's warm glow. Otherwise, the sky was a deep blue, but a gloomy blue. Like someone had scribbled over it with a lead pencil, which suited my mood, bittersweet, quite well. I could tell it was about to pour down rain, considering I could smell it in the air like barbeque. Also, in the distance was a looming gray cloud the size of a sport stadium. It looked angry, too.

My father had tried to take me out on a picnic. A nice, friendly, father-daughter afternoon filled with happiness, sunshine, and laughter. I scoff. I guess I should explain why I was angry on a picnic. _Why would I be angry on a nice picnic?_ This casual, pleasant luncheon turned to an announcement. I'm not even sure it was an announcement, even. Like a declaration, but more serious and more heartbreaking.

My father had hustled me up to a pretty hill in a meadow on the large farm we lived on. It had a looming olive tree peaking at the crest, which was now sprouting seaweed-green orbs the size of grapes. He carried a basket chock-full of treats-saltwater Taffy, all of my favorite flavors, a blueberry pie, courtesy of our neighbor, wrapped in a red checkered cloth with flowers on it, four cans of Mountain Dew Throwback, which my dad _never_ let me consume, one veggie salad, for my vegetarian self, and three hot-dogs complete with a container of hot chili and squirt bottles of ketchup and mustard, a jar of homemade cinnamon applesauce, filled to the brim with chunky-looking half liquid, half solid sauce. It was unmistakably heaven, for me. I knew right then this was something majorly important. Maybe he got a promotion. Or he got a salary raise. Or he wanted to tell me something. I figured all three. That was the usual routine, anyway.

The meadow surrounding the hill was silent except for the occurring chirp of birds or our footsteps swishing the grass, or the rattling basket in my father's hand. The air was filled with more than just moisture. Tense silence, like the whole of the farm was holding its breath, just like I was.

I took a shaky breath, trying to be quiet. I didn't want my father to know I already expected of him. I was being brave, for his sake. It didn't look like he wanted to be brave in return. I was okay with him being sketchy. It was his normal attitude, always jittery and nervous, like he was always thinking about something horrible. Then, though, I couldn't relate.

"I'm sorry for rushing you here, Opal," my father's voice said from in front of me. I could tell he was forcing back something. He squeezed my hand I held back a gulp. His hand was clammy and wet with perspiration, as well as his beading forehead. "It's an important matter. I hope you understand."

He shot a side-glance at me and I caught his eye. He looked away quickly, back ahead. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes screamed an emotion I couldn't quite lay my hand on- something between anxiety and sadness.

I patted his hand with my free fingers, sympathetically assuring him with the pretend steady voice. "I understand, Dad. Sometimes things just come up, and we have to work around it."

He smiled; his stressed face still aiming dead ahead. I worried about him sometimes. He always looked sad and distressed. He didn't always look that way, though. He always appeared agitated and weary after the disappearance of my mother five years ago. He still thought about her, and talked in his sleep. I could hear him sometimes, mumbling in the middle of his nightmare he had nightly. He never told me, even though times I insisted. After a while, though, I got the idea. He didn't even want to think of her. But, of course he still did. It was always thinking about her, too. I couldn't deny I was still haunted by her disappearance, either. It was so sudden, like the breath being knocked out of you when you choke on something, and you desperately struggle to find air again.

They had been searching for almost a year, then, nonstop. My father insisted they keep searching for her, find evidence. Some sort of proof. But, they had come up with nothing and my father and I were loosing hope. We knew she was alive; it was just unreal that she would be at the time, a year of searching. No sign of her. Hope lost. Money lost. It was painful.

Deep inside, somewhere in the corners of my heart, I still believed she was alive. She had been a cheerful person, nothing wrong with her life, as far as my mind saw. Always casting smiles and laughing like the ting of a bell. Her name had been Hiresse. Hiresse McVeigh. An unusual name, it ran in the family, like my own name. I was proud to be her daughter. She was a good woman.

"You're a really wonderful daughter," my father chimed in, his smile still struggled to remain, twitching and not reaching his eyes. For my own sake, I knew, "and I hope you realize that."

I grinned with him halfheartedly. "You're a really wonderful dad, then."

His smile finally faded and there reappeared the everlasting grimace he always wore. "You don't have to pretend I'm a fantastic father; you aren't fooling anyone but yourself."

I frowned, but didn't reply. Somehow, I actually thought it was true. I tried to deny it again, but my mind wouldn't listen. He wasn't the father I'd always dreamed of. He used to be, though. But, I didn't seem to remember any of it. Like all of my memories of the past faded away right with my mother, like she never existed, along with the happiness my father ceased to show.

The deepness in his grimace increased, and I rushed forward.

"Wait, wait, no!" I cried, hugging his arm. "I promise you, you're-"

"Thank you, sweetie, but I know I'm not. I admit it, it's time for you to," he said, not turning to face me again.

I hugged him tighter. "You're ruining the moment, Dad."

His frown lifted a little, but sunk even further. I was about to speak again, but he shushed me with a hiss of air through his clenched teeth, and I did. I wouldn't argue with him now, he was obviously bothered by something. It ate away my self-control the farther we ascended the hill.

My hands were shaking, by stomach churning with excitement. But the bad kind, like when you're presenting an assignment in class, or when you go to the dentist's office, a kind of fear like you couldn't wait to get it over with. Anxiously, I fumbled with the strings on my hoodie, biting and chewing on the plastic aglet until it was bent and peeling. I shoved my hands in my pockets and fingered the dust-bunnies and sand inside. I watched the dewy grass get smothered under my feet and thought about how I was crushing over a million atoms under each step. Nothing worked in keeping my mind centered away from the situation at hand. My feet anxiously climbed to the peak of the hill.

We reached the top, at last. I leaned against a tree and caught my breath, ignoring the pounding of my heart. I wiped the sweat from my brow and picked an olive. It was green and plump. I decided I would use it in my salad. I stood aside as my father unpacked the old mattress cover and laid it on grass, which rustled under the fabric. I flattened it and smoothed it down, packing in all the air bubbles while on the other hand, my father started picking out all of the food he'd packed 'himself'. You and I know that was a complete lie. Just like my life. But, I didn't know, then. So it wasn't as painful.

The wind was picking up, grazing my bear arms, flushing my cheeks, and whizzing by my ears. I was shivering by the time I sat down on the flat mattress cover, which was cold too. The wind blew right through me, freezing my insides and out. I tried to keep myself shushed, but I couldn't compete with the chilling gusts. My father saw me chattering, and took off his best suit jacket and swung it over my quaking shoulders. I looked at him gratefully before wrapping it tighter around my torso.

The fabric itched against my skin, but I didn't mind. My shivering subsided.

"S-s-s-o," I shivered, attempting to steady my voice. I clenched my jaw and said through my teeth, "why are we having this p-p-picnic-c?"

My father smiled faintly, and then shrugged. His blue dress shirt rippled. "I just wanted to spend some time with you."

I managed a half-grin, watching him unpack the last grocery, which was a box of assorted taffy. He took off the plastic film packaging and slid open the box, setting it right in front of me. He really didn't mind if I only had taffy for lunch. Something was going on, and I was desperate to figure it out.

My hand trembled against the icy blast as I reached out and took a piece of plastic-wrapped taffy. I twisted the wrapper off and popped it in my mouth, chewing the watermelon candy vigorously. I cringed when it stuck to the roof of my mouth and worked at it with my tongue.

My father began nervously disposing of the Saran wrap around the bowl of mixed veggie/pasta salad. Meanwhile, I tried to warm myself with my own breath, which was hot and fiery against my tingling fingers.

My father poured a fourth of a container of Ranch dressing into the bowl of salad, tossed it with a disposable plastic fork, and handed it to me. I took it with shaky fingers and a measly smile. I wrapped my arms around the bowl and stared at its contents aimlessly, forgetting about the little olive. I found myself doing that a lot at the time, daydreaming more frequently. Sometimes, I had strange visions with my eyes wide open. I wasn't hallucinating, either. It was as if I was literally _there_. The most commonly seen vision was a girl. It was hazy, but I could still see she was crying and screaming, running frantically around in a wide, open forest. No sound came out of her mouth, though. Like my dreams were always on mute.

The looked back and forth, racing around a clearing. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened and I might have even heard a shrill scream. She spun around, in a stance to take off again, but before I could see what she was being chased by, my dream was interrupted.

"Opal?" my father asked, his voice a little scared. He worried about me, too.

I swallowed and blinked, my vision returning to the strangled-looking face of my father. He looked at me tenderly, searching my face, before taking a bite of his hotdog. I heaved a sigh. It was only a matter of time before he took me to a therapist.

I picked up my fork and readied it, my hand hovering over the bowl, only to set the salad and fork down and reach for another piece of taffy. I looked up at my father, who was looking at me, but didn't make a sound when I grabbed another helping. He looked down at his trousers, mumbling, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I raised an eyebrow, but he was busy talking to his pants.

The way he ate, though. He took small bites and kept looking at me through the corner of his mint green eyes. He chewed thoroughly, before taking a faint swallow. Then he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He never did that.

Something was on his mind, something big, and he wasn't telling me what. I knew it involved me, a lot. What he was going to tell me would impact my life. He was a really bad nonchalant liar. I wasn't going to live with the fact my father wasn't comfortable in confiding to me.

He shielded me away, though. I couldn't find words to say. He built a wall between us. My heart was sinking. He was supposed to be my father, tell me all of his thoughts and dreams and how cute I looked without makeup like every normal father. But, of course, I knew that my father definitely wasn't normal. Not _special_, just different. Like the runt of the batch, except he was the exact opposite. It's hard to explain, you have to live through it to realize how distant my father is. He carries both of our lives on his shoulders, and I couldn't be any guiltier.

I decided it was best for both of us if I just got it over with.

"Dad, tell me. I know something's bugging you," I blurted before I could stop my steadfast mouth.

He looked up abruptly from his half-eaten hotdog. He was in mid-chew, his mouth hanging open a little. He looked up slowly, like he was trying to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Like me. He eyed me, sort of glaring, until he finally set down his lunch and brushed his hands on his pants. I kept my eyes set on him, so he would know I meant business.

He shuffled in his cross-legged seating position, trying to get comfortable, but he couldn't find a steady grounding. He stood up and waved me over. I stood up hesitantly, my head throbbing along with the beat of my heart like a harmony of drums. He walked forward, grabbing my shoulder and my muscles tensed under his touch like he was radiating his own energy. I waited, listening to my own uneven breath.

"What do you mean?" he finally said, and my jaw dropped.

"You're seriously still trying that act, Dad?" I asked, irritated. "I'm your daughter. I'll understand if we have to make a change. Like if you're getting a raise or being promoted, or we have to sell the farm because it's too much to handle, or I'll have to sell a few of my things to be able to get grocery's this Saturday, or something like that. I'll understand. I realize it won't be good."

He frowned. "You think that's what I'm going to tell you?"

I shook my head. "What else?"

My father sighed, running a hand through his blond salt and pepper hair. I could tell what he was about to say was immensely hard. Like telling a preschooler with hopes and dreams they were about to die. He cleared his throat, and then took a hard gulp.

"I have a little bit of news."

I wanted to ask good or bad, but something in the back of my mind told me bad, anyway.

"_Yes_," I said. "News…"

"It's big news."

I propped my hands on my hips. "I know it is news, just get it over with."

He started pacing when he knew he was defeated. He let go of me and walked the length of the hilltop. After a few paces, and he didn't answer, I spoke again.

"Dad?" I asked, stepping in front of him. "Really, just get it over with."

He nodded a little too eagerly. "I guess so, huh?"

I nodded, circling back to the tree and leaned against it, my foot tapping the ground impatiently. I was getting more and more anxious each moment, each movement my father made.

He took a deep breath and turned away from me, his back facing me. I was about to confront him again when he cleared his throat again, licking his lips, and said, "From the search squad."

The thick air clogged my throat and dried the moisture away from it. My skin turned pale as a sheet, and my eyes were bloodshot. My heart gained fifty pounds and dropped from my chest. I blinked hard, tucking the curtain of blond hair behind my ears with a shaking hand. I stayed silent, my voice seeming not to work at all. I couldn't even muster up a whimper. All I got as a reaction was a plump, salty tear forming at the crease of my left eye, and eventually dropping down my cheek.

"Hey, hey, sweetie," my father wrapped his arms around me and patted my head. I didn't move. I couldn't.

"Mom," I choked on the air I was trying to swallow.

I could feel my father nod, and the rest of the tears poured down in a waterfall of a series of emotions tied into one.

The whole orchard of olive trees gained silence. The only sound was the heart-wrenching sobs of my father and I and the breeze that continued to rustle by, mockingly. At that moment, the rain started to fall and tears and rain droplets combined into one.


	3. Therapistship

.:Chapter Two:.

* * *

"A-are you… serious?" Mace Shay asked me in a quiet voice. He wouldn't meet my eyes; his head was bowed as far as it could bend. The only thing I could see of him were his tan hands peeping out of his black hoodie jacket sleeves and his head of wavy chocolate colored hair I begged him to get trimmed on a regular basis. His fudge-colored eyes, of course, were staring at the porch floorboards.

"Why would I joke about this?" I answered his question with another, my voice choking halfway through it. "You're my best friend, I'm not that shallow."

He didn't look up, still. He ran his hand through his hair and murmured something barely audible.

"Please talk to me. I forced you to come over at ten in the morning not to just stare at the top of your head," I whispered, suppressing a weak giggle that sounded like I was gagging. I cleared my throat, dropping the idea of even pretending to be optimistic.

He shook his head, but I, of course, couldn't read his expression. "I'm sorry. I guess I should've seen this coming, huh?"

"We all should've, Mace. It's okay to still have hope sometimes. But, I guess, after almost six years, people run out of options. Sometime, someway, we had to go through this anyways," I said, forcing my voice to keep under control. I clenched the shakiness out of my hands with a fist.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his head lifting a little, "for everything."

"What's to be sorry about?" I got up from my rocking chair on the porch and the squeaking sound from its hinges faded away. "It's not your fault; none of it is."

"I know," he said, looking up at me as I approached him. I sat beside him on the floor.

"Then why do you keep saying you're sorry?" I asked him.

"Because I am; I feel sorry for you, your dad, everyone."

"Well, you don't have to be," I replied, resting my head on the armrest of his chair. "Because she's still alive, somewhere, and everything'll be fine once I find her again."

Mace sighed. I could tell he was frustrated. "'Pal, give it up. She's been missing ever since five years and some months ago. She's gone, and she isn't coming back. Even though it's hard to accept, it has to be done."

A cloak of awkward silence enveloped us as I realized he might be right. My mother was smart, though. She couldn't have committed suicide, or have been murdered. Why would she want to kill herself, anyways? She was happy, joyful. Some even suspected she ran away from home, hitched up with another man and left the country. Some say she'd been kidnapped, without a trace. But, that feeling that she was out there and alive and needing for my help, living on a whim… it hurt me inside. Like it was my fault she was gone.

A few tears stung behind my eyes, and my face scrunched up in a bitter sobbing expression. I let out a gasp of air after holding in the sobs for so long, and I was caught red handed.

"Opal, I'm sorry, again. Everything, all of this dramatic crap, it just makes me… literal," Mace turned, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin in his palm. His eyes were a pool of Hershey's chocolate, reflecting any amount or form of light. I always gave in to his puppy-dog stare. How could I not?

I smirked, covering his eyes with my own hand. "Don't even try it, Mace."

He swatted my hand away, laughing. "I wasn't even trying. So, thanks, I guess."

I smiled behind a glass of orange juice, but he turned away again without a sound.

"You're making everything worse," I muttered and got up from my seat on the floor. I made my way across the deck, sick of bitter silence, and eventually came to the door. Of course, though, I was waiting for Mace to deny my exit and make me feel better about everything, comfort me. But his voice never broke the blanket of quiet.

I sighed, hoping he would hear me, and reached for the knob.

"You do know the door is locked, right?"

_Oh, God._

"_Yeah_, I did. I was just…" My voice trailed off into the morning air and I heard him chuckle.

"If you wanted to catch my attention and talk to me, just tell me that," he was full out laughing, hooting, now.

I growled, "_Don't_ get on my dark side. Not today."

He cocked his head sympathetically. "Sorry, for the last time, I promise."

I shook my head. Of course, he managed to break my anger spell. "Just talk to me, no joking, heart to heart for a minute for once. Please?"

The corner of his mouth twitched and wiggled into a half-grin while he eyed me coolly. "That's how you do that. You have mastered the first test, young Jedi."

"You are the _worst _Yoda."

"Just trying to lighten the mood, kill me."

"I can't. Otherwise, I won't have anyone here for me but my dad, and let's face it; he isn't the brightest man in the world right now." I sat awkwardly in front of him.

He took a shaky sip of his orange juice and a string of yellow liquid dribbled on his white V-neck. He jolted forward, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Aw man," he sighed. "You _know_ pulp makes me gag."

"I forgot." I couldn't help but cackle.

"God, it almost went up my nose again."

I scoffed, gulping another swallow of juice to mock him.

"Wipe that smile off your face," he said, but his naturally mischievous grin never left his face.

"Okay, okay, okay," I sat up, and breathed in and out dramatically. "Serious, and heart to heart, remember?"

He choked another puff of laughter. "That's as heart to heart as I get."

I could feel my smile fade and a line replace it. "Really, I need someone to confide in, and you're my only option- unfortunately."

"Thanks, a lot."

I shook my head. "How can you go from completely and awkwardly silent to talkative and sarcastic in two minutes?"

He shrugged. "I was just shocked, I guess."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Why was it shocking? You said it yourself. We should've seen this coming."

He shrugged again, but with one shoulder. "I guess because it sort of kills every percent chance of her actually being alive, even if we doubt."

I felt my eyes sting and I turned away to the rolling hills to the left, blinking furiously. "But they never found evidence."

"Yeah, why-"he sat forward in his chair suddenly. "-_ no, _Opal. No way. She's gone, forever. Accept it. Embrace it. Learn from it."

My sadness was replaced by anger. "How am I supposed to accept I'll never see my mother again? How will it teach me a lesson? Not to let my eight year old child end up with only a father and an inconsiderate, idiotic, immoral guy of a best friend?"

"Opal-"

"Don't _Opal_ me. I'm on a roll."

"Just hush; you'll wake your dad from his annual morning migraine nap," he whispered, reaching forward to touch my shaking arm.

I swatted his hand away and settled back into my chair. "Right." I clenched my fists and tried to keep myself calm.

"Look, I know it's hard-"

"It isn't hard. It's difficult- with a capital D." I sighed, and looked out to the scenery before us. The rows of olive trees swayed in the wind, their leaves rustling and creating a melody that faded into the background.

"Well, I know it's difficult with a capital D, then," he continued, trying to be patient. "But, you have to move on sometime. Even if there was no proof of her death- don't you think she'd try to move on if it were you that'd been missing for six years?"

He was right, again, and I hated every moment of it. "She wouldn't be able to. She loves me."

He didn't try to correct my time tense, but he did speak to me in a smooth but quiet and sure voice, "She does love you- she always will. You need to show her you love her back by letting go, Opal."

He reached over and took my wrist and I didn't stop him this time. I was too busy concentrating on blinking back tears that kept coming every time I closed my eyes and shut them away. I would have to give up after a while of this. For some reason, it felt like if I let the first one fall, they'd never stop falling.

"It's all fine. It isn't goodbye forever, right?" he said in a soothing voice, and of course, I lost my focus on keeping the tears away at the thought of seeing my mother again.

My sobs rang through the fields and stirred flocks of geese nesting in an oak nearby. I hid my face with a curtain of curly caramel hair, and let the emotions fall out all at once yet again, and Mace let me.

I kept crying for minutes on end. It was a relief to let out everything that had been bottled up for so long; they all basically came in a flood of pouring tears.

"Just let it out, just let it out," Mace was whispering to fill the silence in between my crying.

_Get a hold of yourself_, I thought. _You've known for two days and you choose now to break down?_

I gathered my spirits and the curtain of hair, tucking it behind my ear and I turned back to Mace. Of course, I was still crying, I couldn't help it after realizing that he was right. She _was _gone, and was _never _coming back.

My eyelids fluttered in my attempt to cage in the tears. Except, this time, I didn't see the familiar meadow of trees and flowers, and occasional weeds we forgot to uproot.

The girl, she was in the same forest again, but with different surroundings like she was in a different part of the world. The fact that she didn't seem scared or urgent anymore surprised me. Instead, she was resting by a rock, her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful- like a still lake. It was as if she was made of glass, and if you touched her, she would shatter.

This time, she was clearer. I could see a braid of pale cream-colored hair that swept over her shoulder. It must have been two feet long, at least, and tied by a stem of dead grass. The rest of her, I didn't get the chance to focus on.

Something must've startled her, because her eyes opened in a flash, her body jolted forward as she scanned the perimeter of the clearing she occupied.

Her expression turned from lethal to confusion.

The girl got up, eyeing something below her on the forest floor. She bent down on one knee to take a closer look. Apparently, it was a sheet of paper, but all I could see was a blurry slur of dirty, rain-soaked rectangle folded down the middle.

She reached out a hand to get it, and her eyes started to move horizontally across the paper. She looked in the direction it had come, another confused look on her face, but I saw something more: hope.

She folded it back again, carefully, before stuffing it in her pocket and running back in the way which the mysterious piece of paper had come from.

"Opal, listen to me," Mace's voice said, but it was echoing- like it was from far away. "Snap out of it."

I blinked hard, hoping I would see Mace's familiar face. And, my wish was granted.

"Opal." His hand was laid hard on my shoulder, his muscles tense. "Opal, are you okay? You don't look like it."

I shook my head, feeling way out of it. "I just need some fresh air…"

He laughed, but then his voice went deadly serious. "We're already outside. How much more fresh could it get?"

I snorted and Mace gave me a funny look.

"No, really, are you okay?" he said, completely serious this time.

"Um… I'm not sure I can answer that in confidence," I smiled. "But, you know I am never truly okay."

He shook his head. "That's why we're best friends. It's how it works."

I smiled, but my mind was somewhere else. My face must have showed it, because Mace kept asking questions.

"What were you even looking at?" he asked, turning again to look where my eyes were set on when I spaced. "I don't see anything."

"Of course you don't. I'm jealous of you, a lot," I sighed, propping my temple on my fist.

"Er, thanks?"

"No, Mace. The things I see are… frightening."

"Then _what _do you see, anyways?"

I shuddered, trying to keep the visions off my mind. The girl, why she was terrified out of her mind, what she found… it scared the heck out of me.

"I don't feel like explaining," I continued, tracing the wicker of the rocking chair I sat in. "It's freaky. I think I'm going crazy."

He nodded, but pursued me again. "Just tell me, I can help. My uncle is a part-time therapist."

"_Not _funny, Mace."

He shrugged. "I wanna help, I hate not knowing. You know how I get."

"_Blech_," I scoffed. "Fine, you'll only call me crazy, though."

"You're seriously worried about my thinking you're crazy? Maybe you actually are."

I heaved another shaky breath.

"I always see this girl, but I can't see her clearly. She's usually in a forest, but she's always alone and either running frantically from something I can't see, or just sitting there," I said, the words pouring out of my mouth at rapid speed. Mace stared at me, and I could tell by his expression he was trying to make sense of all of my chattering.

When I didn't get a response, I spoke on. "She looks familiar, like I've seen her from somewhere. But that's probably because I can't exactly see her. It's all confusing, I can't figure out what the heck is wrong with me, plus the fact that my mom is gone. Or excuse me, gone forever."

I looked up from my wringing hands at Mace, who was looking to the side at the landscape, his fingers to his lips in a thoughtful pose. I barely noticed he was shaking his head ever so slightly, something I would've looked past at a single glance.

I was waiting impatiently for him to whirl around and tell me to visit his uncle who was a 'part-time therapist' and to stop drinking so much Coke before bed, or suggest to my father about sending me to a mental hospital for an evaluation. After all, nothing came out exactly as I thought.

He turned around suddenly, startling me, except he didn't pay any mind I nearly fell out of the wicker rocking chair. He calmly cleared his throat and reached up to pinch the skin on his chin.

"I don't think you're crazy, Pal," he said genuinely, and I felt a wave of relief. "But I _do_ think you need a smidge of help." He held up a hand, his pointer and his thumb pressed together.

"So much for not being crazy," I said. "But I could use a hand with my sanity, I guess."

He smirked wickedly, his eyebrow curled upwards. "Hand with sanity granted."

"Please don't blow this out of proportion," I prayed, grimacing, "or you're going home for sure."

"That might be a tough rule to follow, but of course, I'm not the insane one," he replied, grinning.

I shook away the compelling feeling to try and correct that I_ wasn't_ insane after all, but even _he_ couldn't lie. I was totally psychotic. "Okay, then. Shoot."

He choked an over-exaggerated cough. "When do these visions occur, mostly?"

I cocked my head, considering the possibilities of my answer. If the answer was all wrong, I'd still be crazy. If it was right and completely likely, then I'd be home free. "I don't exactly pay attention to the time I have them, but I guess every time I'm upset. So, nowadays, every day at the least."

Mace nodded, his lips pursed. "And how do you feel about that?"

"Well… not good."

"So… bad?"

"Mace, seriously, I accept the fact I need help. I accept my mother's death-" _nearly_"- and I accept that you are the _worst_ therapist ever. Just help me, be my helpful, talkative friend, not my counselor," I said.

"Sorry, Opal… just trying to cheer you up, is all," he sighed. "Can I try to be your therapist again?"

"Sure. Whatever cracks your coconut," I smiled.

He smiled with me, but his face morphed from happy to intense in the blink of an eye. "So, you started seeing this... girl after your mother disappeared?"

I nodded brokenly. My mind was straining itself to remember the day I came home from school and the house was empty. My stomach clenched and I swallowed my sadness. "I remember having one, that night. But of course, I was too young, at eight, to understand it and my mother's disappearance. So I had never had one until maybe two weeks ago, when I heard my dad talking on his phone at a gas station. He was talking to the caption of the search party, saying things like 'we can't abort the search now' and 'I'll pay you double salary'," I shuddered.

Mace was listening openly as I spoke. After awhile, he said, "Have you considered the possibility that your visions are connected to your mother and her disappearance at all? It's likely."

Realization flooded through me. Of course, how could I have not seen this before? It was obviously true. My mind was stressed and in denial, so I was creating these scenarios in my mind that she was alive, just… in a different form? Maybe?

"No, I haven't thought of it that way," I muttered. "Maybe now that I know the cause, they'll go away."

"I doubt that, but it's still possible," Mace replied grimly.

"Why?" I was pretty upset that I was still a psych.

"Because," he said. "The reason that you have these daydreams is because of the ordeal with your mom, right? They can only be cured if the cause, the problem, is solved. At least, I think."

"Great," I said. "Unless I can find her and bring her back to life and time travel back to when I was eight and live my life like I was supposed to live it, then I'm doomed to failure in the sane department."

"You can still cope with it," he said. "It's summer. Maybe you'll get through it by the start of the schoolyear. Get through the shock, I mean."

"Hopefully," I said, wrapping my arms around my knees and curling into a ball.

"Hey, hey…" he began soothingly, leaning forward to pat the back of my hand. "We're in this together. You don't need to feel alone."

I smiled. "Thanks, kiddo. You're committed."

He smiled, and his hand removed itself from mine as he sunk back into the creak of his chair, which began rocking and squawking like a parrot. "That's what friendship and therapist-ship is all about, am I right?"

"Yeah," I whispered, my voice cracking.

Silence fell on us again, but this time, it was a comforting and calm silence. We watched the sun rise to the very top of the sky and beat down on the landscape and the siding of the small one story house I called home. Geese and crows flocked, flying through the skies and landing nearby, calling their songs as they went.

The peacefulness was again interrupted with a strange whirring noise, coming from Mace.

He held up his index finger and slipped a cellphone out of his sweatshirt pocket. He chuckled awkwardly as the phone vibrated in my palm for a minute before he simply flipped it open and said a little too cheerily, "Yell-o?"

His smiled faded into a scornful grimace. He rolled his eyes and covered the receiver with his hand.

"It's the mothership," he laughed, and I heard a muffled scowl. "Sorry, Mother, dear."

I snorted and covered my mouth.

"Yeah, yeah," Mace replied to the droning coming from his phone. "Yes, I'll be home in a sec, _chill_."

He snapped the phone shut. "You heard, didn't you?"

I held back a smile. "See ya, kiddo. Have fun at… Emi's Girl Scout ceremony at one?"

He nodded. "How'd you know?"

"She's been bragging about it ever since she got the invitation, remember?" I smiled to myself at the picture of Emi, Mace's six year old sister, smiling her gape-toothed smile as she received her first patches. "Now, get going, otherwise Emi will have a tantrum."

"Your right," he said, looking truly afraid. "Call me if you need another pep talk, okay?"

"Okay," I waved him off.

"Promise me you'll come talk to me? I mean, I don't want you to go to some mental hospital with a bunch of freaks," he grinned.

"I'm not a freak, but I'm sure _you _are, somewhere along the line," I said. "Now, goodbye, for real this time."

He nodded, and saluted before disappearing down the porch steps and around the corner. When he was out of sight, something inside me died, and I slumped into the house, disappointed.

I remember the chilling valley winds breezing their way right through me, my muscles clenching as I chattered, and my right hand trembling, the pencil nearly shaking its way out of my grip while I desperately tried to shrug my sleeve over my wrist in an attempt to keep warm. It was usually warm and cozy this time of year, but up on this hill on a rainy day, it was alike to a late autumn evening. The only reason I chose the old, rickety wooden swing that was placed in the most wrong spot possible was for two reasons alone: I needed a quiet place, and this was my mother's swing.

Maybe ten pieces of crumbled spheres of paper littered the area around me, one even sitting in my lap and another on my shoe. I had just wasted too many pages of my art portfolio but I had to get this letter right, especially since it would probably set everything right if it was done correctly. I couldn't risk anything at any level at this point.

I thought out the beginning especially carefully.

_**Hiya**__** Hello, Mom. I've been worrying about you lately…**_

I grumbled to myself, crumbling yet another paper, too fed up to erase and be green.

_**If you find this somehow, someway, then just come home? Everything has changed since you've disappeared. If you're lost in a forest or in the hands of some psycho, please just hang on. I promise I will come looking for you, I promise everything will get better once I do, and we can live our lives happy, you and I. I'll find a way to get you, I'll find a way to make everything alright and hopefully get you out of your situation. They say you're dead, but I deny it. It's a feeling in my gut and I can't explain it. If you had died, then I would've too, it's that simple. I wanted you to know that I love you, more than anyone or anything else, and I know, I'm absolutely positive, that I will see you once again and I will hug you until you die, even if then I would die too. I love you.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Your Dearest Daughter, Opal McVey. **_

I smiled approvingly at the final outcome which had taken careful thinking and an hours worth of time. Once she found this, everything would be better, but it would take time to let her find it and take action, at last.

I read and reread it over and over, making sure it was positively perfect and no flaws whatsoever, erasing and rewriting words that were any less than neatly written. Finally, I decided to myself I was being completely ridiculous.

She was dead, right? The dead can't do anything about my visions or my father's sorrow or the possible ruining of the most important part of my life: childhood. I needed to give everything up and genuinely accept the straight fact that it wasn't possible for her to be alive, even in the highest of circumstances. No one, not even her, could survive in a forest for six years with nothing but a purse and the clothes on their body. The facts would have to be faced someday, and I intended to do just that. Even if it was as hard- no, difficult, with a capital D.

I stared bitterly at the now eraser-worn piece of paper that had been dog ear folded in the bottom right corner from my elbow that now felt heavier than usual. I tried my best to smooth it down and rip out the paper carefully, to no avail.

It split through the middle, a whole side of the page tearing off completely, the corner with my name and signature on it, nonetheless. It wasn't surprising that the small and simple mistake caused me to have another uproar.

I stomped out of the bench swing, dewy grass seeping through my shoes. I snatched the page of thin sketching paper from the seat of the ancient swing, crumbled it hard with as much strength as I had, and thrust it down the hill into the unknown and untraveled forest.

I watched it disappear and roll out of sight behind a tree in the distance below me, but this time I was far from disappointed. Satisfaction crept its way through me, and I felt a smile stretch upon my face. My hands walked their way to my hips as I turned away from the scene and made my way down the path leading the way back to our shaggy homestead, not even bothering to dispose of the wasted papers and pick up my, now almost empty of papers, art pad.


	4. Failed Mission

.:Chapter Three:.

* * *

You haven't been yourself lately," my father observed, finally, from behind his Sunday newspaper. "You haven't seen Mace in almost a _whole day_."

I sighed a little too loud from below the kitchen counter. I nearly dropped the Colorado novelty coffee mug that my father always drank from in the mornings that was halfway full of cold coffee. I set it shakily down on the floor and stood up from my squat beside the dishwasher.

"Are you trying to ask me what's wrong?" I said, pouring the leftover coffee down the sink drain. "Did you not drink enough coffee to function this morning, or what?"

He set down the sports section in his lap. "You should do things to forget. Play with your friends, or something."

I laughed awkwardly. "First of all, if I have to remind you, I'm _fourteen_ not four. I don't 'play', I hang."

"Well, then, 'hang' with some friends. You need some time off; I'm worried about you, honey." I knew we were about to get serious when he turned down the volume for the news at noon. "You surely have more friends than just Mace, right?"

I scrubbed the coffee mug with a cloth before setting it in the dishwasher with a clatter. "Not any ones I'm close to. Well, besides Heidi Caruthers, but let's all face it: she's a little… temperamental."

I would've sworn I saw my father shudder from behind the Funnies. "She's a nice girl when you don't push her buttons."

"Dad, if you touch her, actually anything related to her, that's basically pushing her buttons in her perspective. I'm not going in public with her," I said grimly, picking up a plate from last night's microwave dinner.

I saw him bite his lip when he set down the newspaper again. "Okay, hon. But, for my sake and yours both, just spend more time with Mace. I see your face when you're with him. You two used to be joined at the hip before you hit the double digit years. Your friendship is special, and you won't realize that until it's gone."

I made a face behind the cabinet door that I was opening to find more dish soap. "I know, Dad. I'm just having a hard time right now and a girl _does _enjoy alone time, especially an emotionally challenged one."

He turned up the volume again, and I guess that meant he surrendered.

I finished up a cereal bowl from maybe yesterday morning and turned on the dishwasher. Once it was churning and bubbling, I circled the counter and picked up the new art pad my father had bought me. The other one was ruined in the rain the day before. I gratefully wrapped my arm around it and perched the side of it against my hip.

"After you get done, sweetie, would you help me with get rid of all the weeds in the orchard? The plants are out of control," my father said without looking away from the TV screen.

"Fine," I said, almost a grumble. "Just maybe an hour to myself, okay?"

"Sure, just don't loose track of time. You have a habit of that."

I rolled my eyes, grabbed a pencil and ruler before heading before the door. I clattered down the back porch steps, shutting the door behind me.

The Sunday afternoon was a mockingly beautiful day, sun shining through scattered cumulus clouds and seeping through the trees of the orchard, creating tawny patches on the emerald green grass. Birds tweeted their regular songs and a gentle and warm wind rustled the leaves of the olive trees that sat in rows down the rolling hills. Sun was warm and comforting against my skin that was aglow in the light as I headed my way down to the same little bench swing.

The walk wore me out, so I plopped down on the rotted wooden bench with no trouble. It creaked and moaned as I settled myself into the rotting planks, adjusted my position a couple times before I found a comfortable one and set the art portfolio onto my lap. I made sure my pencil was perfectly sharpened to a pointed tip before I positioned it in my right hand.

I watched it shake, despite the perfect weather, in dismay as it hovered over the fresh art pad. I had never had artist's block before, I usually just drew what I felt. I guess that mostly summed up exactly what was keeping my artistic abilities on hold: my mind was far from drawing then.

What could I draw to keep my mind off of all of the stress? Probably not anything mom-related, such as cooking utensils or plants, or people for that matter, so barely any options remained. I guessed I would draw the scenery displayed in front of me: a beautiful daylit sky lined with clouds as puffy and full and white as freshly picked cotton that domed over a cheery atmosphere of fresh air filling the orchard with a homely appeal. It would be the easiest and most practical thing to sketch after all, so I tightened my grip on the number two pencil and slowly lowered it down onto the paper.

As soon as the lead hit the page, my wrist began moving. First, I would start to outline the horizon with the tops of the distant trees of the forest and leave the details for last. I drew the beginning of the forest, the trees and plants surrounding them. I sketched the hills and swiftly outlined the olive trees until they were out of sight. Soon, I had the rough base of an expected landscaping.

I looked up from the page at the horizon, looking for details to add into the trees, squinting against the sun that was now barely setting off to my left. I shaded my eyes with my fingers that fanned over my forehead, blocking the sun's rays from my sight. I couldn't see the distant details very clearly, so I just improvised. That's what my mother had taught me: when things aren't as clear as you need them to be, just make them clear. What she meant was to be imaginative, have common sense all at the same time. It was an important lesson, especially with my wandering mind.

There was that feeling again: something inside you fading, a piece somehow getting lost from your heart like when you hear something you don't want to hear. I felt my back slouch in unison to my heart dropping and the pencil roll halfway out of my hand.

When I looked up from my shoes, though, this time I wasn't aiming to focus on the distant horizon of foliage. It was because my eyes were fogging, the color fading from my sight, and a new image appearing. The sensation I always get before I receive a new sight.

I blinked, and I arrived in a completely new place. This place was more familiar than the rest, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was a misty lake glistening and as still as a sheet of glass that was ringed with trees that were in full bloom, like it was summertime. The sky looked like it did that day, crystal clear but dotted with clouds.

At first, nothing was happening out of the ordinary. Nature was doing its thing, being nature. The wind was rustling the leaves on the trees, but of course, I didn't hear it. My dreams were still as though set on mute.

Something happened, and panic rose through me. In the distance, a white figure much too tall and bleary to be the girl. It was much blurrier when far away, and I had trouble deciphering exactly what or who this was. It looked like a pure white blob that seemed to float, like a phantom, a ghost. I could feel my heart pound in my chest as I tried my best to remind myself every second that whatever it was, it couldn't hurt me. I wasn't actually there, at least as I thought.

The burry phantom came into more of a view, it came closer. But that didn't help me configure what it actually was. It didn't exactly look frantic, though, either. It calmly shuffled by the lake and disappeared through the trees with one final glint of something that looked like came from the middle of its right side; like it had metal on it that was reflecting sunlight.

I jolted awake, shaking in fear. This was the creepiest daydream yet. What could this mean? Why wasn't it the same as the others? What was that creature? When will I come to my senses? Questions all flooded my head, which was cluttered and fogged with mystery as I gathered my things and headed back.

On the way, I took the portfolio and opened to the first page to my landscape. Something wasn't right, though. It was covered in smaller drawings, so many I couldn't count or make out a few. I squinted at a scribble of lines and came to the conclusion that I must have drawn them while I was dreaming. Mostly because I had drawn something I wouldn't have without the help of my visions- a falcon-like creature with stretching wings, its feathers coiled around something. I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn't imagining what I saw. What the bird was gripping in its feathery wings was a key.

I caught my breath. What am I doing? I asked myself. It's just a key.

It was like an ominous omen, a fortune of terrible contents. I shut my eyes tightly before slamming the art book shut. Only then did I feel it safe to open my eyes again and shuffle to the storehouse where I would meet my father and hopefully forget, even though I knew I wouldn't.

After the weeds and stray plants were long gone, I was glad to head back into the house. Grabbing a cold bottle of water from the freezer and pressing it to my forehead, I made my way down the hall and turned a left corner. I shoved the bottle in my sweatshirt and climbed up the ladder that led to a small loft I spent most of my time in. It was originally supposed to be a study for my father, but he gave it to me for an art, and sometimes library, room.

I opened the hatch hesitantly. A burst of musty air escaped through the square shaped opening in the floor and I coughed the dust from my lungs. Once I got used to the air inside the tiny loft, I continued climbing to the top. I arose from the hatch, dropping the little door down and locked it behind me. I surveyed my old safe haven critically.

Grime on the window shaded most of the sunlight from entering the room, but the rays that did revealed dust particulates swimming about the air. I choked another cough before walking forward. The air in the loft was heavier, denser, probably due to the dirt that had built up from being untouched for almost two months. I had never felt compelled to come up there during the summer, the biggest reason being it was steaming hot in the tiny, boxlike room.

I searched the quiet room for a fan that I might've left up here much earlier. I spotted it just over the rim of a worn cardboard box. I crept over to it, pushing away used and empty canvases alike, open paint tubes that were most likely dried out and crusty. I scooted gingerly between a bucket of old, dirty water from water painting and the wall that was streaked with grime and spider webs.

I reached the box containing the large fan and gently bent down to lift it out. I was careful not to exactly wrap my arms around it so my shirt would stay clean of dust while I brought it over to the corner of the room. I plugged in the long white cord into the outlet in the side of the wall. I braced myself for a shower of grime as I turned the fan on low.

Particles flew and hovered in the air before falling to the floor, raining down until most of the mess on the fan was completely gone. I turned it finally on high and began to work on the clean up.

I paused to flip open my cell phone. Printed in white letters on the main screen were the numbers four, two, and one. I had maybe three hours before dinnertime to clean up the room and possibly paint a little, or read from a book I never finished and had forgotten about that lay in a beanbag chair in the near center of the loft.

I heaved a long, gusty sigh before snapping the phone shut and stuffing it back in my jean pocket. I rested my hands on my hips, staring with glazed over eyes at the mess which would soon be gone- if I only knew where to start in the first place.

I clapped my hands and stepped a measly foot forward. I rested my hand on the top of a canvas, and with the other hand I ripped the dusty page from it with a tear. My eyes seemed to cross and waver, a memories flashing across my mind like lightning. I saw the letter I wrote to my mother, my name torn off the corner.

I shook my head, blinking furiously. I swallowed and steadied myself before crumbling the piece of paper and tossing it into a half-full trashcan in the corner. Of course that was nothing. It was normal to be reminded of things you weren't proud of at the slightest similarity of something that was occurring in the present time. It really was likely I would be reminded of that anyways. Right?

I coughed again, into my sleeve, before brushing the gathered grime off of my palms and moving the canvas aside only to reveal another. At least this one wasn't as dirty, I thought, but it was used and teaming with colors that had been painted on months before. It was smeared a little in the bottom corner, like someone had touched it. I smiled, as I recalled Mace, you forgot the canvas was wet and brushed up against it with his side. He still had that green t-shirt with a rainbow of colors splashed across the side, and he never said he even thought about washing it off.

I brushed aside a layer of dust that had settled on the top sheet of the canvas. It fluttered to the floor and changed the color of the carpet from cream to light brown. I would most definitely run a vacuum through here, after I figured out how to get one up into the loft. I should ask dad, I thought, after I'm done with the rest of the clean up.

I had much more to do, and it was already four thirty.

I grabbed an old towel that was splattered with paint from under a canvas. I wiped it along the window until a fair amount of light poured through it like golden water, shining squares along the carpet. I ran the towel along every single surface that held any sign of being dirty. Soon, the room sparkled with dull light that could barely compare to the room before.

I leaped down from the hatch, ran into the kitchen and swiftly grabbed a broom. I rushed back to the loft, where I ran the bristles of the broom along the walls and all of the spider webs until they were all weaved in the broom and off the room. I threw it down the hatch where it clattered to the carpet.

I picked up the beanbag chair, shook the grime off of it and plopped it back down on the carpet, me with it, the book in my hands. I hugged the book in my arms and looked the room once again, impressed, before returning to my book. I gazed at the cover for a moment. It showed a meadow, covered with a variety of flowers in a rainbow of colors that sprung from the ground around a pathway that a small girl was running along. My eyes moved to the title that was displayed across the cover in elegant cursive font. The title read _Realms of Wonder_, a book that had caught my eye by its cover alone. Then, of course, the book itself was fantastic. It was the story of a small girl no older than eleven discovering an enchanted realm, consisting of mythological creatures- mostly faeries and elves and nymphs, creatures of nature.

I had left off, according to the bookmark shaped like a posing Persian cat, was chapter twelve, the chapter where she supposedly learns she is part faerie and her parents aren't her real parents at all. I was about to curl up and start to read the rest of the chapter when my name was yelled from downstairs.

"Opal!" My father yelled, his voice echoing throughout the house. "I have to go to the Shays', Paul isn't home and Terry needs help putting together Posy's new bedpost."

"I thought they got it fixed the night after…" I was saying before I realized he probably couldn't hear me. So I yelled, "Can I come?"

There was a moment of silence. "Mace isn't home, but you're welcome to come and keep the girls entertained. It'd be a big help."

I looked longingly at the book I'd never even opened. "That's still fine; I miss Emi and Posy anyways."

"I'll be leaving in a couple minutes, 'kay?" he yelled.

"Sure thing, Dad!"

I got up stiffly from the beanbag chair and threw the hardcover book underhandedly back onto the chair behind me, where it slapped the plastic and sunk into the fabric. I slipped on my shoes without bothering to put them on properly, the heels of the shoes folded down, and sat myself beside the hatch and plopped down onto the carpet below. My feet stung, but I walked it out as I headed my way down the halls and into the bright, luminescent kitchen with florescent lights flickering unsteadily.

I gazed at the lights for a minute before piping up, "We should change those bulbs, you know."

My father looked over his shoulder at me, surprised, and swung his light coat around his shoulder. He turned to me and walked forward. He gazed at me for a second, like I was a completely different person, and then raised his palm to stroke my cheek and tuck a stray curl behind my ear. I smiled sheepishly before waving him away awkwardly.

"We should get going before the girls break another bedpost," I said, reaching for the doorknob. "Break it by doing something much worse than playing circus trapeze on it, this time."

My words seemed to wake him from his trance. "Of course-we don't want that to happen, do we?"

I swung open the door and leaped out into the evening air, which was cold and crisp, completely the opposite of the loft. I jumped down the front porch stairs, landed on bent knees and spotted the car not far from the garage just beside the rocky driveway.

I headed to the car and entered to cabin of the small, bent up farm truck has been centuries old. Dark green and peeling crusty paint in all corners, the truck had some originality about it that I adored. So what it was the only indecent-ish car around a good stretch of city? Memories were packed inside, some I smiled at and some I'd rather not be reminded of.

The car revved to life once my father got inside and turned the key that eventually subsided to a mild purr. The little truck started down the driveway and turned left. Soon, I would be at Mace's house with his two little sisters and I would truly be able to forget every single thing on my mind. The visions, the mom ordeal, the stress of coping with insanity would all be gone once I arrived on his doorstep. Everything, all of it, would soon be fine in the second best place I could ever possibly think of. You know, second to inside my mother's arms. I supposed it was now the first, but, one can imagine. If anyone could, I could, after all.

But, obviously, my imagination was just a little too wild. I was no longer seeing just that stupid girl; I was seeing a ghost, phantom, banshee, all the same. It was all too much for me even then, like a glass overflowing with liquid. Not only that, but as a cup, it seemed like I was shrinking. The overload of water was just two great. Even more on top of that, it was like someone was screaming horribly high pitched, for a long time, and I was just about to shatter unless I already had. Then I could be able to hold nothing but air.

But what do all of these things mean? It wasn't like I was having these strange visions for no reason. It might be because of stress alone, but honestly, I wasn't as stressed as to me conjuring things with my own mind I didn't even understand. None of it made sense, and I was sick of all the confusion. Soon enough, though, I must find answers somehow. I can't just let my own mind devour my sense of direction, or my life for that matter.

Soon, though, I would be as Mace's house. I would be at Mace's house in seconds. It'd all be fine there. It would all be fine. I would forget everything like a past memory. Nothing can affect me, especially when I'm surrounded by my second family.

As if on cue, my father spoke in a cheerful voice, "We're here."

I blinked, craning my neck to make sure he was right. And, as expected, he was. My eyes lay upon Mace's house, which wasn't much more extravagant than mine, except for the fact he had two stories. He wouldn't be able to cope with one, with five people in the family. We slowly pulled into the driveway, and my feet tapped anxiously against the floor mats and my fingers danced across the dashboard. I had really begun to realize how much I longed to visit the two young girls who were almost like blood sisters to me, plus Mace's mom, Terry. Apparently Paul was on a business trip in Maine for a couple weeks, by Mace's words, and they needed help replacing Posy's headboard.

My head jerked backwards as the car parked beside the house. I opened the door and jumped out, to find Emi on the porch clutching her stuffed rabbit waving at me frantically, Terry holding her back. Posy wasn't far behind, scampering happily from the open door that shed light on the porch that was darkened with night.

"Op-Op!" Emi shrieked, and was let go by her mother when I reached the top of the porch steps. Under the circumstances that she wasn't six years old, I would've begged her not to call me _Op-Op_. She jumped over to me like she had to sue the bathroom and hooked her stubby arms around my calf. Posy, on the other hand, was peeking out from behind Terry's leg shyly. She had always been the touchy type, so I had to kneel down beside her, after releasing from Emi's vice grip, before she walked forward. I hugged her while she wrapped her less-stubby arms around me gingerly. She was just on the peak of turning nine, so she was maybe a foot taller than Emi, but half as social.

Terry waved me inside, Posy and Emi tagging behind. I heard my father and Terry talking about Paul's business trip, but I it wasn't audible as soon as I was tugged around the corner by Emi into the playroom. The playroom was scattered with various Fisher-Price toys and sip-y cups that were empty or half-full.

Posy rushed forward to her Barbie's and began dressing and re-dressing them, while, on the other hand, Emi played with her stuffed animals.

She tottered and teetered over to a container that held a massive amount of assorted stuffed animals: horses, cats, dogs, rabbits, bears, and even a deer or and a lamb or two. She opened the lid, stood on her tiptoes to peek inside. She ended up dumping the whole thing onto the floor.

"Ooooh!" even Posy cooed, tauntingly. "Mommy's gonna get mad."

Emi wasn't fazed, but instead simply picked out all of the horses and brought them over to me. They kept falling from her tiny arms, the five horses, so I helped her bring them over.

"Now this," she pointed to a white horse with brown speckles, "is Cinnamon. She is in love with this horse," she pointed to a black horse with a brown mane, "and his name is Blacky."

I picked up "Blacky" and stroked his soft fur. "Blacky is soft," I observed, setting his beside Cinnamon carefully.

"He's my favorite boy one," she stated, bending down to kiss Blacky's nose. I smiled at how a little girl would take so much time in caring and loving something without life, but make it have life on their own. "Cassidy is my favorite girl."

"And who is Cassidy?" I asked, eyeing the line of stuffed horses.

She began to point to a caramel colored horse, but then hesitated and pressed that unpointed finger to her lower lip in dismay.

"What's wrong?" I asked, fingering her soft brown curls.

"Cassidy isn't here," she said mournfully.

"Hm," I tried to look thoughtful. "Where did you last have her?"

"I don't know," she muttered, checking the row of horses again just to make sure.

Posy trotted over eagerly. "Today before lunch we played with Mace in the lake."

Emi perked up, but then her happiness faded. "But it's dark and scary outside and the lake is far, far away."

She looked at me expectantly, and I was about to make up some excuse why I would refuse when she gazed at me softly with those fudge-colored eyes that glistened with what might have been tears. I sighed, and smiled at her warmly.

"Don't worry, Em," I said, standing up from my spot in the carpet. "I'll rescue Cassidy from the scary night outside, okay? She'll be fine; I can go and get her."

Emi began cheering, her hands waving in the air. "Yay! Yay! Op-Op!"

I turned and walked down the hall to the girls' room. My father was working with the screws on a new white bedpost and Terry was talking to him hurriedly, like she had planned what to say for a long time.

I knocked on the door and Terry stopped abruptly.

"Is something wrong with the girls?" she asked nervously, getting ready to dash into the playroom.

"No, no," I said, waving my hands around. Terry settled back onto Emi's little twin sized bed mattress. "Emi just forgot her toy horse by the lake. I said I would go get it for her, so I won't be able to watch the girls while I go."

Terry shook her head and got up from her seat. "You don't have to do that, dear. It's far too dark and the lake is in the back of the property. Someone should go with you. Besides, it won't rain or anything tonight. We'll get it tomorrow."

I smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. You know how little girls get- they need things, otherwise she won't get a wink of sleep tonight."

She looked down, defeated. "Alright. But hurry and carry a flashlight with you. The lake is a straight walk from the left side of the shed."

"Thanks," I said, and continued down the hall. I gave a thumb up to Emi, who smiled a big gape-toothed smile.

I entered the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from the top of the refrigerator. I opened the door, turned on the light for the porch, followed by the flashlight. I hadn't realized it was this dark outside, but I couldn't back out now unless I could bear to here the desperate wails and cries of Emi, who would certainly have a tantrum and give me the cold shoulder for weeks. I pictured Emi, sobbing her heart out, and finally convinced myself to head out into the night.

As I closed the door, a soft silence and cold aura enveloped me tightly. I hugged myself, wrapping my arms around my torso. It was colder than I thought; otherwise I would've taken a jacket. The stars twinkled in between fluffy clouds, and I could see the moon clearly. It was tinged yellow that night, with dents and craters carved into the sides, naturally.

But right now, I wasn't really outside in the cold and dark night to admire the lunar lit surroundings. I wasn't here shivering in a spooky, empty property to gaze pointlessly at the stars, so I braced myself before stumbling stiffly down the steps and pointing the flashlight at the ground in front of me. I headed in the direction of the shed, or where it should be, and found it eventually. I traced to the left side and recalled Terry's words: _The lake is a straight walk from the left side of the shed._

I began walking forward, and entered the woods. It was spooky, branches looming in the darkness, owls hooting and creatures scampering about the forest floor. I flinched every time I heard a noise as little as a squirrel scampering, or a branch quaking from under an owl's feet. It wasn't exactly the funnest place to go.

I reminded myself to walk in a straight line. Of course I sometimes forgot, veering away and hoping I was still going the right way. I kept my flashlight clutched in a trembling hand that pointed in front of me, helping me reveal anything I wouldn't want to come across.

I was getting restless, rushing through the forest almost aimlessly now. I frantically kept running forward, praying for the lake to come into view. I prayed with all my might, terror rising through my chest as cold wind as ice did the same. I was shivering and chattering against the evening breeze. Without the winds, it would be fine. But, of course nature gave me another obstacle to jump over.

To my surprise, I arrived at the lake. I immediately regretted with every fiber of my being that I hadn't prayed so sincerely. In fact, then I started to pray I was back at Mace's, where nothing could hurt me. Nothing could fear me at all.

What was lying in front of me would appear to any other person, any sane person, as a fairly normal lake. But to me, as I struggled to breathe steadily, staring at the scene with wide eyes, I saw nothing but my worst nightmare- literally.

The flashlight dropped out of my hands and rolled, bouncing against my shoe and flickering miserably. As I stared, bug eyed, at where my last vision took place, I could almost imagine the phantom-like creature slithering across the clearing and disappearing in the line of trees shading the lake from view. I had begun to shake from more than just cold. Terror rose through my veins, adrenalin kicked in and urged me to turn and run, but my body didn't respond. I was frozen to the spot, my feet glued to the earth, nailed by bolts. I desperately told my feet to move, but I wouldn't listen to myself.

Normal nightly sounds crept into my ears- crickets and frogs croaking, flapping wings, the lake lapping against its shore. The sounds echoed and rang in my ears, every sound piercing my ear drums with such force that I squinted my eyes and covered my ears with my fists, but I was still haunted by the noises. I gave up and came to my senses. I needed to move, and fast. I needed to get out of here, something ominous was stirring.

I bent for the flashlight, but it was gone. I groped for it urgently on the forest floor, but never came to it. I was surrounded with swimming darkness that seemed to thicken with every breath.

Footsteps were audible, coming from behind me. They began closer and closer and louder and louder until it was just behind me. Terror and complete fear exploded inside me at no amount I had ever experienced. Something grabbed my shoulders and wrapped its arms around me. I let out a blood curdling scream that sent shivers down even my own spine.

"Opal," a voice whispered beside my ear, warm breath breezing past my ear lobe. "It's me, Mace. It's okay."

A wave of relief washed over me, my worries dropped like rain and disappeared. I was comforted, warmed, and relieved by the touch of Mace's arms that were stretched tightly across my shoulders. I let him lead my back inside by the light of another flashlight, and forgot all about Cassidy, Emi's favorite girl horse. Some more things were on my mind that I couldn't help but dwell on even when I was inside Mace's house.


End file.
